


my craft has wings

by andlightplay



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pern Fusion, Gen, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 03:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6686977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andlightplay/pseuds/andlightplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which brownrider B'ly takes part in a rescue mission, accidentally Searches two candidates, and attends a Hatching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my craft has wings

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [hiddencait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddencait/pseuds/hiddencait) in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> Pern Dragonriders AU because reasons. Really want something Billy centric here, preferably gen, but if you have a pairing you really think will work in this AU, go for it. (AsheBones is my fave, but I do read slash too.)
> 
> Headcanon he's a Brown rider with a dragon that lives up to the sheer size of his height. Possibly one of the riders who goes on search for candidates - maybe coming across either Abigail or Ben and bringing them back for a Hatching? IDEK - I just want loyal-to-a-fault Billy getting to have a dragon who's just as loyal to him.)
> 
> *
> 
> So because I am the trashiest trash for any and all kinds of 'soulbonded animal' premise, I already had a Pern AU plotted out when I joined this fandom, and this opportunity was just too good to resist. I hope it's at least partly what you were after, hiddencait!
> 
> I...suspect that this will make little to no sense to those who aren't already familiar with Pern. If you want a more detailed overview, there's the [Wiki page](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dragonriders_of_Pern) or a [fan summary](http://pern.srellim.org/intro.htm), but otherwise here is a quick and dirty primer:
> 
> Soulbonded dragons! They mindmeld with certain chosen teenagers at hatching, and theoretically the color of dragon you get is an indicator of your personality. The five colours, in descending order of prestige/dominance, are: gold, bronze, brown, blue, green; bronze, brown and blue are ridden by men, gold by women, and green by either sex. The mindmelding is known as "Impression", and after impressing successfully boys traditionally cut one or more letters out of their name and replace them with an apostrophe. Dragon names always end in "-th", and their eyes change colour in response to their moods; the mindmeld allows them to communicate telepathically with their riders (and anyone else they choose to speak to with the natural ability to Impress), and they can travel by teleporting through the mysterious _between_ from one place to another. Dragons, their riders, and their families and support staff live in Weyrs (the craters of extinct volcanoes, the walls of which are full of caves for the dragons to live individually in), and all other people live in major or minor Holds (castles built into cliffs, ruled by a Lord or Lady), or learn vocational Crafts in dedicated Crafthalls. The worst punishment, generally reserved for those accused of terrible crimes, is to be declared Holdless, or exiled from your Hold and all others and forbidden to ever return.

_The Weyrleader wants to see you_ , Manderlith says, and B’ly carefully hides his wince. Time was he’d have been pleased as punch to receive such a summons, but times have changed. G’tes is dead, that tunnelsnake Sl’ver is inveigling himself ever deeper into the Weyrleader’s council, and Weyrwoman Miranda is distant and aloof where she used to be bright and involved.

 _Now?_ He asks, even though they both know F’lint never asks for people without then expecting them to appear from _between_ before him.

 _Now_ , Manderlith confirms.

B’ly makes good time across the weyrbowl, and glances briefly back at his dragon just before he mounts the steps to the Weyrleaders’ quarters. Manderlith is up on the rim, lying in an easy sprawl and watching him back, his mind full of positive encouragement. B’ly turns reluctantly away, and climbs the stairs.

Magrawth is sitting vigilantly on the ledge, and B’ly nods respectfully to him as he skirts round the bronze’s tail to enter the weyr. The dragon’s eyes are green and calm, his posture relaxed, so hopefully this isn’t anything too bad.

 _You are to go to the meeting room_ , Manderlith advises, and B’ly sends him a quick thank you. When he pushes open the door, he finds more people than he was expecting - not just F’lint and Miranda, but the other two weyrwomen Eleanor and Max as well, and most surprising of all, Wingleader V’ane, lounging in his chair like a large and satisfied feline.

“B’ly,” F’lint says, nodding to a spare chair. “Sit down.” B’ly obeys, and F’lint’s eyes rake the room. “Now that we’re all here,” he says, with no real emphasis but a certain weight of censure none the less, “we can begin. Lord Ashe of Carolina has requested our assistance - his daughter Abigail has been kidnapped by a roving band of the Holdless led by one Ned Lowe, and he would like us to help him track them down, as they have something of a head start.” Obviously he can’t actually ask them to hunt the men down - dragons don’t hurt humans, and the Weyr has its own problems to deal with - but it’s still a pretty big deal for a Holder to ask the dragonriders’ help. B’ly supposes that’s why V’ane is here, since F’lint is really too important head up the search himself. Still, he finds himself wondering at Sl’ver’s absence here - this seems like exactly the kind of thing F’lint’s recently begun to delegate to him. Perhaps, because of the kidnappers’ head start, either F’lint or Lord Ashe feels that one rider wouldn’t be enough.

“V’ane will be leading the search,” F’lint continues, confirming B’ly’s suspicions, “but B’ly, you’ll be joining him temporarily, as my representative. Lord Ashe is an old friend,” and he exchanges a look with the Weyrwoman, “and though I can’t be involved directly, I’d like someone I can trust to oversee the operation.” V’ane’s smirk is lazy and unconcerned, but Weyrwoman Eleanor, his weyrmate, looks briefly irritated on his behalf. “I understand that once you find the men, you are to return to the Hold and inform Lord Ashe of their location, and he will then take the appropriate action against them. If the lord asks, you are of course available to transport him and his men. Does anyone have any questions, or anything further to add?”

“Only that I knew of this Ned Lowe and his crew, before I came here,” says Max in her soft Neratian lilt. Her dark eyes sweep the table. “He is not to be trifled with, nor underestimated. He is ruthless, and cruel, and if he senses that you are after him, he may well decide that the girl is acceptable collateral damage. Be very careful, and do not let him sense that you are hunting him before you wish him to.”

The idea that the man might hurt Abigail before they can rescue her, or that he might pose any kind of danger to even a small Wing of dragonriders is almost absurd, but that’s no reason not to believe what the young weyrwoman says. B’ly nods to her to show that he’s understood, and personally vows to Manderlith that the former will never be allowed to happen. V’ane’s small bow is slightly more condescending, as is his salute to the Weyrleader, and his gesture to B’ly is airy, though B’ly knows better than to assume that means V’ane doesn’t expect him to obey. He sketches a hasty bow to the rest of the room and follows his new Wingleader out.

V’ane’s bronze Rangerth is already landing when B’ly reaches the ledge, gleaming deep copper and flattening the grass with every wingstroke. His touchdown thuds through the soles of B’ly’s boots, and V’ane slaps his neck appreciatively. Rangerth is bigger than Magrawth, longer and more solid in the chest, but Magrawth’s position on the ledge means he is able to look serenely down on the other bronze, his pointed yawn showing a flash of teeth. Miranda’s Barloth, who’s larger than both, makes an amused noise from her position on a higher ledge. Magrawth maintains an air of innocence, but Rangerth rumbles deferentially.

Manderlith comes sweeping in over the bowl then, and backwings to land neatly at Rangerth’s side, shorter by about double handspan but almost as long, to B’ly’s surprise and pride. Next to Rangerth’s burnished hide he’s somewhat subdued, brown earth against an autumn leaf, but the contrast also brings out the warmer tones in his colouring. The dragon’s thoughts are amused but he accepts B’ly’s fond pride as his due, holding his head high, his eyes a deep, confident blue. B’ly think’s Magrawth’s body language is also approving, given that the bronze is usually their Wingleader; both Rangerth and V’ane are eyeing his brown thoughtfully.

“He’s big; you’ll be flying point,” V’ane says finally, and then with no further ado he grabs for Rangerth’s straps and vaults astride, the big bronze launching into the air in almost the same motion. Magrawth’s snort might be disdain or amusement, but the eye he fixes Manderlith with is stern.

 _We are to do as we are told and be a credit to our Wing, but not to let V’ane go unchallenged if necessary_ , Manderlith relays, inclining his head to the other dragon. B’ly keeps his eye-roll purely mental until they too are away.

By the time they’ve returned to their weyr for their full riding straps, including the passenger harness in case they do have to transport the Holder’s men, V’ane’s Wing is mustering on the Rim. B’ly counts a dozen dragons, including Rangerth and Manderlith. When they beat up to join them, V’ane directs them to land next to his Wingsecond, R’kham, whose bronze Calicoth is hardly bigger than Manderlith, though he’s probably faster thanks to the many greenflights he’s participated in. He courteously moves aside to give Manderlith space to land, and R’kham nods amiably over at B’ly. Normally, his absence from the meeting would also have been unusual, but he’d only recently been restored to his rank and allowed to fly with V’ane again, and clearly their relationship is far from fully repaired.

Rangerth barks for silence, and V’ane speaks without dismounting. “Lord Ashe’s daughter has gone missing. The Weyrleader has requested our assistance in locating her so that her father can confront the kidnappers. They have several days head start, but since there’s a gang of them I doubt they’ll be difficult to miss. We’ll be flying a low sweep over the Carolina surrounds; Brownrider B’ly will be joining us, and flying point. Communicate via your dragons, and try and keep our presence quiet. There are some concerns over the girl’s safety if it’s known she’s being searched for.” He raises an arm, and Rangerth launches into the sky, followed a moment later by the rest of the Wing. They spread out, forming a neat aerial line with Calicoth in the centre, Rangerth and Manderlith at each end.

Manderlith offers B’ly the visual; Carolina Hold, jutting up in the distance, surrounded by forest and fields, high enough that their presence will hopefully go mostly unnoticed. B’ly hasn’t been to Carolina for a while, but the Hold outline matches what he remembers, so he confirms it. From the Hatching Grounds, which make her voice echo strangely, gold Guthrith calls a farewell to her mate. V’ane’s arm drops, and the Weyr vanishes.

An even ten breaths later they emerge exactly where the visual indicated, still in perfect formation. B’ly is grudgingly impressed with the Wing’s discipline. He has no particular allegiance to F’lint, but V’ane is not a man he’d willingly serve under either, too antagonistic towards those he deems equals and dismissive of all others, convinced of his own superiority because of, or certainly not hindered by, the colour of his dragon.

The dragons fan out, and Manderlith relays the order that while they’re to keep roughly in formation, each dragon is to set their own pace to keep wingbeats to a minimum. As B’ly knows for a fact that Manderlith has some of the broadest wings in the Weyr, he lets the brown settle into a leisurely glide. It’s actually quite peaceful up here, with the sun warm on his back and the ground beneath rolling away, green and verdant and safe. Manderlith is happy, too: pleased to be doing something less strenuous than fighting Thread, equally warmed by the sun on his back and wings, and content to watch the world below, his sharper eyes on the lookout for any suspicious movement.

There are several false alarms, as time marches on: mostly from greens, spooked by Smallholders or grazing animals. Manderlith forgives them these false leads with his usual gentle good will; B’ly finds himself irritated more each time, his dragon’s easy-going warmth butting up against his own concern for the girl, Abigail, should they not find her or one of the other dragons give them away.

 _We will find her_ , the brown says reassuringly, giving his wings another infrequent beat. _These men cannot go_ between _, therefore they cannot just disappear_.

 _They seem to have done a pretty good job of it so far_ , B’ly grumps back, and feels Manderlith’s fond and familiar mental touch soothing the edges of his temper.

_We will find them, B’ly. We made a promise._

When it comes, it’s sudden, Manderlith’s jarring halt throwing B’ly against the neck ridge in front of him and threatening his future ability to father children.

 _Bonnith sees something!_ Manderlith says, words reverberating with excitement. A second later, he passes B’ly the image, distorted by a dragon’s compound eyes: a rutted path between the trees, multiple hoofprints overlaying each other, in an area otherwise devoid of people or settlements. Up ahead are crumbling cliffs - nothing like the edifice that houses Carolina Hold, or the Weyrbowl, but big enough for a band of desperate men to hole themselves up in, if there are caves.

 _It’s either them, or some Woodcrafters are about to get a nasty surprise_ , B’ly answers, almost too unwilling to believe now that they may finally have found the real thing.

 _Calicoth agrees; he sends Bonnith to investigate_ , Manderlith says, and B’ly looks over to see the little green swoop down, her colouration almost blending in to the forest canopy. _We are not to move, in case it is them and they hear_ , the brown adds, craning his head around to look at the distant Rangerth.

There’s a tense few moments while Bonnith’s rider Anne picks her way up to the cliff, and the dragons have nothing to do but wait; B’ly can feel the tension in Manderlith’s shoulders, communicated in the huge sweeping wingbeats he’s using to hover in place. Then down on the ground Bonnith twitches, neck and wings extending, and a second later Calicoth hisses, eyes whirling to yellow and orange.

 _Bonnith’s rider was attacked! She has killed the men, but now more come!_ Manderlith reels off, already stooping, and along the line Rangerth bellows, a clear order. Manderlith doesn’t stop though, wings drawing in, the angle of his descent steepening, and around them B’ly sees other dragons dropping, the smaller and swifter blues and greens diving down to join their wingmate. _Since we already discovered, Rangerth’s rider says we may as well finish the job_ , Manderlith reports exuberantly, and B’ly has a second to wonder whether this was in fact V’ane’s plan all along before the trees are rushing up to meet them.

The forest marches right up to the base of the cliffs, so while the smaller dragons can land without too much difficulty the larger ones face a problem. Manderlith solves it by mutilating a few trees as he lands semi-upright, wood snapping and cracking under his paws. B’ly unfastens his straps as fast as he can and jumps off his dragon’s neck, skidding down the sleek brown shoulder to be caught awkwardly by the dragon’s forepaw clutching against the powerful chest.

 _Careful_! Manderlith admonishes, fixing him with a reproachful orange eye as he deposits him on the ground, carelessly flattening another small tree as he does so. B’ly gives his paw an encouraging thump and takes off running.

The Holdless men are wild-looking and furious, fighting with a wild abandon B’ly doesn’t expect from men facing dragonriders, who usually command at least some measure of respect. Most of the dragons are still fighting their way through the trees, but their angry roars carry, and perhaps their approach is what fuels the kidnappers’ frenzy. The man fighting B’ly is currently attempting to gut him with a nasty-looking scimitar, and since B’ly only has his beltknife, it’s a fight he’s not going to win without some help, though he’s not in particular fear for his life because one of the other riders is coming up from behind, a proper sword in his hand.

 _I should really have noticed that the rest of the Wing had armed themselves_ , he says ruefully to Manderlith, stepping out of the way as the man falls in a spray of blood.

 _You don’t have a proper weapon?_  the brown responds, and a moment later the trees nearby tremble and collapse and his head and shoulders thrust though, casting about until he spots his rider. Yellow immediately blooms in the orange of his eyes and he barks a strangled warning amid more ominous wood-shattering sounds but B’ly, forewarned, ducks and twists away, only to complete his revolution with a cocked fist that makes a satisfying crunching noise where it impacts the Holdless man’s nose. His other hand, the one holding the knife, moves easily in towards the man’s stomach, though at the last minute B’ly closes his hand around the handle and makes it a punch. Lord Ashe might want to question someone, after all.

 _See? I’m fine_ , B’ly reassures him, and the brown growls, hauling himself out of the trees and looming over his rider protectively. The flow of men seems to have stopped though, and those who haven’t yet engaged or aren’t dead seem to be thinking better of further aggression now that the dragons have arrived. B’ly spots little Bonnith lunging at a man and pinning him beneath her forefeet while Anne nonchalantly wipes her sword clean on his clothes and her dragon bristles down at him, all crimson eyes and bared teeth. He reaches up to rest a hand on Manderlith’s foreleg, knowing that he’ll calm sooner with a reassuring touch. Sure enough the great head drops, the brown nosing at him fussily and then allowing B’ly to transfer his hand to his jaw, looping an arm under the warm neck and giving a brief squeeze.

 _We are to secure any prisoners we have_ , he relays after a moment, giving a gusty sigh and lifting his head again, and B’ly kicks experimentally at the man at his feet and then turns to unbuckle the surplus extra riding straps. When he finishes trussing the man up like a wherry for roasting, he straightens up to take full stock of their situation.

One of the dragons - he thinks it may have been Rangerth - summoned some residual flame from last Fall, and smoke is drifting in the wind. The dragons are all present and accounted for, eyes settling back to yellows and purples, and none of their riders seem injured. His own man and Anne’s seem to be the only prisoners taken, which is unfortunate, but better than none at all.

 _The Wingleader wants you inside_ , Manderlith says unexpectedly, turning to look at Rangerth, who’s hunched slightly awkwardly up against the cliff, traces of red still bleeding from his eyes, which are staring into the cave entrance.

 _Why?_ B’ly asks, already making his way over, and the bronze’s head swings towards him with a growl.

Manderlith makes a warning noise, wings unfurling. Rangerth hisses irritably at him, but subsides, attention returning to the cave. _He has found something._

The cave is dark for a little way, and then crude torches appear on the walls, casting their hazy, flickering light on the rough-hewn passage, which soon opens up into a respectably-sized living area. The remains of hearth fires, still smoldering, and scattered bedding, attest to the haste with which the Holdless men left to defend their encampment. V’ane is waiting for him beside a further passageway, and leads him down it without a word. Water laps nearby, and abruptly the ground under his boots ends in a gaping hole. After a moment to catch himself, B’ly peers down, and picks out two pairs of wide eyes staring back at him.

The girl - Abigail - is shivering violently, her skirts soaked and water rippling around her legs. Her arms are wrapped around herself in an attempt to keep warm, but her face is pale and B’ly suspects that the only reason they can’t hear her teeth chattering is because she’s clenching her jaw to hide it, a true Lord Holder’s daughter. The man next to her is as wild-haired as the Holdless men who were apparently keeping him prisoner, and more raggedly dressed. He’s careful not to stand too close to the girl, but neither is he distancing himself from her, and his fists are clenched.

“Who’re you?” he calls roughly, and his accent is hard to place, perhaps somewhere in Crom.

B’ly looks to V’ane, but the Wingleader just looks back at him, sardonic. “I’ve already told them who I am,” he says, in his usual low growl. “They were hardly in raptures. Perhaps she wanted to be kidnapped.”

“No one wants to be kidnapped and left to drown in a hole,” B’ly retorts before he can think better of it, but V’ane merely considers him, expression unchanging. He turns back and raises his voice a little. “My name’s B’ly, I’m a dragonrider. We’ve come to rescue you.”

Abigail mumbles something that’s swallowed by the watery echoes, eyes dropping.

“Do you know if there’s a way out?” B’ly asks the man, who appears to scrutinise him before deciding how to answer.

“There’s a rope on the wall.”

There is indeed, thick as B’ly’s arm and surprisingly neatly coiled, hanging from a rocky protrusion. B’ly and V’ane unwind it and throw it down, and together are able to haul Abigail up without much difficulty. The man is a little heavier, but not by much, and when he emerges above the lip of the hole they can see that he’s starved almost down to the bone.

“How long have you been here?” B’ly asks, shocked, and he shrugs.

“Don’t rightly know. Think they took me for a bit of new blood, but I wasn’t willing to do their sort of work, even if I was as Holdless as they were, so they left me to rot. Except for when they wanted a bit of sport, or they found something too beneath their dignity. Think they thought I might have a bit of sport with her, but I was never like them. I did my best by her, but she’s not in the best way.”

Abigail stands apart, arms still curled around her body, huddled up small and shaking. She doesn’t get more than a few steps along the passage before her legs give out, and B’ly catches her without a thought. She stares up at him, eyes glazed, and B’ly tries to smile, to reassure her. Ahead, V’ane makes an impatient noise, and carefully B’ly sweeps her up into his arms and carries her out.

He only vaguely notices V’ane stooping to pick something up as they cross the main cavern, so it’s only when they reemerge that he realises the man is streaked and splattered with blood. The apparent cause is the severed head hanging from his fist by the hair, contorted into a final snarl. Rangerth rumbles anxiously until V’ane goes over to him, and the big bronze dips his head to examine his rider, sniffing dismissively at the head. Across the tiny clearing Manderlith croons, and B’ly starts towards him before noticing that the man isn’t following, but is instead frozen in the cave entrance and staring. B’ly forgets that most non-Weyrfolk never see a dragon this close in their lives, never mind half a Wing of them, standing amid the evidence of a recent battle.

 _He is scared_ , Manderlith supplies. _We are many and he is Holdless_.

“Hey, I never did catch your name,” B’ly says, returning, and the man swallows and visibly tears his eyes away.

“Ben, sir. And I’m sorry, I’ve just-”

“No, no, it’s fine,” B’ly assures him. “And I don’t merit a ‘sir’, honestly, I only did what an decent man would do. Now, I told you I was a dragonrider, and my fine fellow over there wants to meet you.” _Make yourself look small and nonthreatening, would you?_

Manderlith obediently hunkers down, lowering his head and slowing the whirl of his eyes, now back to their usual green. The captive at his feet is gone - B’ly hopes he’s been taken by another rider rather than worked his way loose - and all in all it’s about as unintimidating as a dragon almost half the size of the trees can look. Abigail stirs as they near him, and sucks in a breath when she sees where they’re going, tensing in B’ly’s arms…and then she relaxes, all at once, and something almost like a smile trembles across her lips.

“Oh, he sounds like you!”

B’ly almost drops her. “Sorry?” _Manderlith, what the sharding hell are you doing?_

 _She hears me_ , the brown says simply, rolling his nearest eye towards his rider. _So does the man. You have found good people._

B’ly turns to see poor Ben once more stopped in his tracks, but this time he looks stunned rather than terrified.

“I’m so sorry,” B’ly says helplessly to both of them. “My wretched overgrown fire lizard here thinks he’s clever, he’s got terrible social skills, I’ll just-”

“No, it’s fine-”

“Really, I’d never thought-”

 _I am only telling them not to be afraid_ , Manderlith says with great dignity, and Abigail actually giggles a little. _The Wingleader says you should mount up, though. Ben is to go with J’enks._

_Go where?_

_Back to the Weyr, when we’re done. He has no Hold, so he is free to be Searched._

_And that’s what you’re doing, is it?_

_Yes_. The dragon’s thoughts are distinctly amused. _Now hurry up and get on_.

B’ly throws a last look back at Ben, who gives him a weak nod and a smile, still looking pole axed while the bluerider J’enks motions him towards his waiting dragon, and then turns back to Manderlith. “Abigail, d’you think you can climb up onto this idiot?”

“Of course,” she says, with a kind of quiet poise that reminds B’ly of Weyrwoman Miranda. He shows her where to put her hands, and stays behind her while Manderlith boosts them up level with his shoulder, then gets her to scramble the last bit until she’s seated correctly on the dragon’s neck, her pale and ruined skirts contrasting with the warm brown hide. He settles himself behind her and curses himself for using the spare straps to tie up the prisoner, finally settling for clipping himself in with two and using the other two to form a makeshift harness around her waist, trusting to Manderlith not to pull anything that might endanger them.

 _I would never endanger you_ , the brown says firmly, and then Rangerth calls the launch and springs into the air. The smaller and unburdened greens and blues dart up after him, and Manderlith moves into the vacated space of the clearing, such as it is, spreading his wings. Between one step and the next he tenses, and then leaps, almost vertical due to the cliff and the surrounding trees, and Abigail’s hands clutch at B’ly’s around her waist. The first vital downstrokes only break a few twigs though, leaves showering down, and then they’re out into open air, Manderlith moving to flank Rangerth now that the search is over and the old formation isn’t necessary. B’ly conjures up Carolina Hold’s forecourt, the towering cliff face and the three other walls, embracing and containing the overspill of small buildings and cotholds, with the great paved road leading up to the main gate. V’ane’s arm drops, and they go _between_.

When they reappear above the Hold Rangerth bellows, loud and victorious. Holders spill out into the courtyard, startled and gawking, and make the already small landing area smaller still. _Rangerth and I will land_ , Manderlith relays. _There is no space for the rest._

It’s quite a tight fit, Holds not being built for dragons, but it’s amazing how quickly a descending dragon can clear a space in a crowd. The Holders pack themselves against the walls, chattering and staring. Someone spots Abigail and there’s a surge forward, shouts of her name and that make her raise a weak arm to wave acknowledgement. B’ly unclips her carefully, but she makes no move to get down.

“Alright?” he asks quietly, and she twitches her narrow shoulders, as if she wants to wrap her arms around herself again.

“Yes,” she finally whispers back, straightening her spine, and in front of them the massive main doors are flung open.

Lord Ashe is sturdy but greying, and with his wife dead Abigail is his whole world, or so gossip says. Seeing his daughter’s body language now that she’s home, B’ly has to wonder. Abigail is preparing to dismount though, so he occupies himself with helping her get down without falling or further ruining her dress. He’s aware, though, that V’ane had given Lord Ashe a cordial bow of greeting which wasn’t returned, and that his indolent pose is anything but.

“Abigail,” Lord Ashe says when she touches the ground, holding out his arms, and she demurely comes forward to be embraced, though their engagement is brief and not particularly close. “I am so pleased to have you safely home.” B’ly thinks Abigail starts to say something to credit the dragonriders, but Lord Ashe continues as if he hadn’t heard. “Come, you must get inside and into some clean clothes before you catch a chill.” He extends a paternal arm around her shoulders and begins to shepherd her away.

“Aren’t you going to say thank you?” V’ane says mildly, his gruff voice somehow carrying. Lord Ashe halts.

“It was no more than your civic duty. I shouldn’t think thanks are required.”

“We found those bandits when your men failed. We rescued her from a hole in the ground she wouldn’t have been able to climb out of alone. We killed Ned Lowe and his people so you never have to fear them again.” The head is produced and thrown onto the flagstones, where it lands with a disconcertingly meaty thump. Several Holders recoil, and several more scream. “I should think that does require some thanks, my lord.”

Lord Ashe looks as though the head is already half-rotted and personally offensive. He manages a short bow. “Then of course you have my thanks, dragonrider.”

“Wingleader,” V’ane corrects, indicating with a jerk of his head the ten other dragons wheeling overhead. “V’ane, bronze Rangerth’s rider. At your service.” The last is dripping with mock courtesy. B’ly is impressed; he’d thought he’d seen V’ane be discourteous to F’lint, in half a dozen different pre- and post-Fall Wing briefings, but that was nothing compared to this.

“Wingleader,” Lord Ashe repeats, slow and withering. V’ane stares him down cooly.

“You have my thanks as well Wingleader, brownrider,” Abigail breaks in neatly, dipping a curtsy. “I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.”

It’s on the tip of B’ly’s tongue to mention her Search potential, but Manderlith is suddenly there in his mind, filling it up with a single thought: _NO_. At his rider’s astonished reaction, he retreats, abashed. _The girl told me not to let you mention it. Her father does not care for the Weyr._

 _Yeah, I had noticed that_ , B’ly says dryly, watching Lord Ashe break his staring contest with V’ane to solicitously lead his daughter away.

* * *

The first thing B’ly sees, when they emerge into the air above the weyrbowl, is the blue dragon sitting in perfect mimicry at Magrawth’s side, somehow conveying an attitude of deep smugness despite the clear difference in size. Magrawth, for his part, is expressionless, his eyes still a placid green, though there’s a certain careful tension in the way he’s tightly furled his wings so that they don’t touch the deep blue hide of the dragon beside him.

 _Sl’ver’s back then_ , B’ly comments to Manderlith. _Do you know where he’s been?_

 _No_ , Manderlith answers after a moment, presumably to enquire. _Longjoth says that if we are to know, we will be told_. The brown’s tone is neutral, but B’ly bristles all the same.

_Jumped up little shit, just like his rider. He’s only a blue, you know, you don’t have to take that kind of thing from him._

Manderlith’s tone is amused. _I know. You are mostly angry about the girl’s father, and her welfare, not Longjoth and his rider_.

 _Well Lord Ashe is clearly a shit as well_ , B’ly grumbles, mollified by his dragon’s insight and reassurance. _She’s not happy there, Manderlith_.

 _She was content to return, having met us_ , the brown says, backwinging to land on the grass in front of the Weyrleaders’ quarters.

_That’s not really a ringing endorsement though, is it?_

_She will be fine_ , Manderlith says, turning his head to fix B’ly with a firm purple-blue gaze. Ahead, V’ane is already striding up the stairs, and B’ly gives Manderlith a final stroke and follows him.

V’ane doesn’t head for the meeting room this time, just takes the first left and storms right into the Weyrleader’s private quarters, B’ly cautiously following on his heels. F’lint glances up from whatever he’s working on at the big desk and sets down his pen, expression severely neutral. In the corner, Weyrwoman Miranda closes the book in her lap and listens attentively.

“We found the girl,” V’ane reports tersely, pacing across the floor. “Took her back to her father, that _fuck_. What kind of wherspawn doesn’t think it’s worth his time to thank dragonriders for saving his fucking daughter?”

“Lord Ashe’s relationship with the Weyr is…complicated,” Miranda says quietly. “The important thing is that Abigail was returned home safely. That should go at least some way to shoring up our reputation with him.”

“Actually, that depends on what you said to him,” F’lint breaks in, eyeing V’ane. “I hope you were at least civil?”

V’ane grunts. “I was civil, once I’d gotten him to mind his fucking manners.”

F’lint’s expression goes pinched. “B’ly?”

“Wingleader V’ane was in the right, sir,” B’ly says carefully. “Lord Ashe was going to leave without acknowledging us at all, and in front of half his Hold. Fortunately, Abigail has a good head on her shoulders and was able to diffuse things somewhat.”

“’Abigail’, hmm?” The Weyrwoman says shrewdly, her mouth quirking up. B’ly feels himself flush.

“I was the one who transported her, my lady. Wingleader V’ane had…other concerns.”

“Ned Lowe’s head, as proof he wouldn’t be any more trouble.” V’ane gives no sign that he finds this an unusual cargo.

“Abigail was…in a bad way when we found her - they were keeping her in a sunken cave full of water! - and Manderlith was able to help her out a bit.” The Weyrleaders exchange a look. “She can hear him, I think she’d be a good candidate for Search, but she told Manderlith not to let me mention it!”

“I think her judgement was sound, given her father’s antipathy towards us,” Miranda says gently.

“But she’s not happy at the Hold!” B’ly insists, even though he knows it’s none of his, or the Weyr’s, business. “If she could just be allowed to stand-”

“No. The Holds are autonomous, as are the Weyrs, and we can’t interfere. Not to mention that she’s still legally a child, and under her father’s rule.” F’lint’s tone brooks no argument. “Her welfare is not our concern. Put her out of your mind, B’ly, at least until she comes of age and can advocate for herself.”

 _She will be alright_ , Manderlith chimes in, probably under orders from Barloth to reassure him.

“We did find another candidate though,” B’ly adds after a moment, striving for an even tone of voice. “The other prisoner there, a Holdless man named Ben.”

“Eleanor has the final say over the candidates,” Miranda says, but she looks approving.

“And that’s another thing - why were _you_ the ones doing the rescuing? Lord Ashe made it clear to me, and I thought that I had made it clear to you, that you were supposed to be the scouting party only, and to return to the Hold for his men.” F’lint is eyeballing V’ane again, and the other bronzerider has folded his arms and set his jaw, defiant.

“Anne went down to have a look once we thought we’d found the location, but they’d obviously posted lookouts. She was attacked, so Bonnith reacted, and after that there was no way Calicoth would have left without coming to her defense. You know how weyrmates are.” A shrug, daring F’lint to make something of it.

“If I may?” says a new voice, and they all look round to find Sl’ver, leaning casually against the doorway and managing to look both diffident and wise. The noise F’lint makes might be amusement. “This Lord Ashe sounds as though he would have made things difficult for you however today had gone, and I suspect that if you had gone back for his troops, he would have claimed the victory for himself and slighted you just the same, only now in front of his own men who know the part that they played in rescuing Abigail. That would have been much more damaging for the Weyr than the current circumstance, where your heroism was witnessed only by a girl who apparently is very willing to acknowledge it.”

The brazen way in which he inserted himself into the conversation, plus the fact that he’s actually putting himself firmly on V’ane’s side, against F’lint, means that the room is silent for some moments after Sl’ver is finished. The bluerider weathers it calmly, and absorbs F’lint’s scrutiny without flinching.

“He’s right,” the Weyrleader says finally, as though it pains him, turning his gaze on V’ane. “However, do not assume that this gives you leave to disregard an more of my orders. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” V’ane deadpans, and sketches a bow to Miranda before he leaves. Sl’ver tucks himself ostentatiously against the wall as the Wingleader passes him, and V’ane ignores him utterly, their momentary alignment dissolved.

“Where did you come from?” B’ly asks, and Sl’ver gives him that sly smile of his.

“Oh, I was always around. Longjoth says you saw him on the ledge, so you did know I was here.”

To B’ly’s knowledge, no one has been able to pry out what kind of training Sl’ver had before he came to the Weyr, but apparently he was apprenticed to tunnelsnakes, and is able to wriggle and sneak his way into practically anywhere with little opposition. F’lint is his latest target, and judging by the way the Weyrleader _isn’t_ currently eviscerating him for daring to disagree with him in front of V’ane, he’s pretty close to hitting the bullseye. A sidelong glance at the Weyrwoman shows her watching them evenly, her face a placid mask. At least that would explain why she’s been so distant from F’lint these last few weeks.

“Am I free to go, Weyrleader?” B’ly asks, suddenly not all certain how he feels about…well, anything.

“Yes, thank you, B’ly,” F’lint says, hunting for something on his desk. He gives B’ly a nod, and the brownrider salutes Miranda and takes his leave. He hears Sl’ver start to say something, low, as he steps out onto the ledge. Magrawth doesn’t acknowledge his exit but Longjoth watches him keenly, his head tilted curiously to one side.

* * *

B’ly catches sight of Ben at numerous times over the next few weeks, as the man is put to work around the Weyr while they wait for the eggs to harden. He’s there helping tally the herdbeasts, breaking up firestone, digging in the kitchen gardens. Sometimes their paths cross at mealtimes, that distinctive accent ringing out across the dining cavern as he tells tales to the other candidates. He seems popular with them, and as one of the oldest has apparently made something of an older sibling role for himself, judging by the wide-eyed adoration on some of the younger kids’ faces. B’ly always nods to him if they make eye contact, and Ben gradually evolves from merely nodding back to smiling or even winking as he gets more comfortable.

Finally, he catches B’ly’s shoulder one night as the cavern is clearing. “You alright?” B’ly asks, surprised, and Ben smile is quick and easy. It makes his eyes crinkle, which is surprisingly endearing and makes him look a million miles away from the scruffy, scrawny vagabond they’d pulled out of the ground. Regular meals, enough outdoor work for a light tan, and a good haircut have made all the difference.

“Oh yeah, sorry to bother you. Just wanted to say thank you, y’know, for this opportunity. Rumour has it the eggs’ll be hatching tomorrow, and even if I don’t Impress, it means the world to me that you brought me here and let me try, and I thought you should know that before whatever happens, happens. So thank you, B’ly.” He proffers a hand, which B’ly gladly takes; the handshake is firm and warm.

 _He likes you_ , Manderlith says smugly, once Ben has given him another smile and slipped away.

 _Shut up, you sound like my mother_ , B’ly retorts. _And don’t eavesdrop in other people’s heads, it’s rude. You won’t be able to, anyway, if he Impresses tomorrow._

_But it isn’t tomorrow yet._

When it becomes clear that’s all he’s going to say, B’ly sighs. _I’m asking if you think he’ll Impress, Manderlith. Don’t pretend you didn’t know that._

 _I cannot see the future_ , the brown answers seriously, after a moment. _But he is a good candidate. He hears me strongly. I cannot see a reason a dragonet would not chose him, but I am not a dragonet and I already have you._

 _So he has no worse a chance than anyone else_ , B’ly summarises.

 _Yes_.

It’s lunchtime the next day when the hum begins, subliminal and almost painful, niggling inside B’ly’s skull and itching over his skin. The cavern pauses, then becomes a contained frenzy, and many of the riders absent themselves to avoid getting swept up in the rush. Quite a few are sent off to collect the candidates’ families and important Holders; F’lint himself ferries in Lord Ashe and Abigail, which B’ly imagines must have been an interesting ride. He and Manderlith have their own assignment to attend to, and as he helps the last of the family down, accepting their thanks, the hum deepens, reverberating through the rock.

 _It’s almost time_ , Manderlith says, checking to make sure the Holders are clear and then spreading his wings, launching them almost vertically up to the dragon entrance to the Hatching Ground. Inside the cavern it’s appreciably warmer, the sands steaming faintly and adding to the mystical atmosphere. Guthrith is sitting neatly to one side, her head raised in song, and her mate Rangerth is hunched above her, a strip of glowing eye showing between his half-closed lids. Above and beyond them are the other two queens, Magrawth perched importantly between them, and the rest of the high roosts are filled with the Weyr’s dragons, all of them tense with excitement and concentration as they hum their welcome.

Manderlith drops B’ly on the ground near the lowest tier of human seats ringing the walls, and leaps up and away to join the rest, his eyes gleaming purple and blue in the shadows of the roof. B’ly finds himself a place next to old D’groot and finds himself scrubbing his hands together, the atmosphere infectious.

The trickle of friends and relatives slows and stops, and the candidates come marching in, their loose white robes rippling with their movement. Ben’s easy to spot, one of the oldest and definitely the tallest, his skin and hair gold against the pale fabric. B’ly resists the urge to wave at him; he remembers how little attention any candidate has to spare for anything but the eggs rocking before them. Several of the younger candidates do manage to glance around though, a few swallowing nervously or summoning smiles for their families, who wave or smile back. Many more of them are surreptitiously rocking from foot to foot on the hot sands, their thin sandals not providing much of a buffer.

The dragonsong builds to a crescendo, the voices of the different colours making an intricate natural harmony, and then it drops into the faintest echo and into the silence, the first egg cracks.

As if hearing a signal, several other eggs fissure and wobble, one toppling right over onto its side, the nearest candidates starting back as the shell heaves, splinters, and finally parts over the wing and spine of a dragonet, who rears free with a startled squawk. It’s a brown, wet and sticky with egg fluid but already drying to a beautiful warm colour like varnished wood. B’ly is abruptly thrown back to a dragonet of similar hue staggering hopefully towards him across the sands, the gentle questioning nudge of another mind against his that bloomed into a staggering wash of sensations and emotions, warm and bright and loving, the moment he unconsciously nudged back.

The Manderlith of now wraps him in a fond mental embrace as the dragonet’s huge eyes focus on one particular boy, and it makes a beautiful crooning sound and takes those first decisive steps towards him, the boy stumbling forward to meet it and sinking to his knees. The dragons’ hum swells triumphantly and crowd applauds wildly, one section of the stands raucous enough that they must be his relations, and the dragonet looks up at the noise, eyes still flushed indigo. The boy - the new rider - follows suit and, beaming, calls out: “His name is Dolth!”

There are other eggs breaking though, and other dragonets searching for their other halves and finding them, the air soon full of plaintive wails and delighted trills, and the crowd gasps and cheers at every one. B’ly looks for Ben, who’s watching everything with a slightly dumbstruck expression, a mix of awe and hope and pride.

 _Look_ , Manderlith says softly, and Ben stumbles, and turns. His face goes blank, and then transforms, and his laugh rings out across the cavern, rich and joyful. B’ly claps so enthusiastically that D’groot turns to look at him, surprised and amused.

“We Searched him!” B’ly says by way of explanation, already craning to see what colour Ben got. The formerly Holdless man steps gently to the side, away from the remaining candidates and eggs and towards the entrance and the food waiting there, and trailing adoringly behind him is a tiny green dragonet, the colour of new spring growth.

Half the crowd is a chaos of goodwill and enthusiasm now anyway, families on their feet cheering their relatives’ success, so B’ly thinks nothing of standing up himself. Ben’s eyes eventually meet his, and his smile widens again, pulling a matching expression onto B’ly’s face. _Thank you_ , Ben mouths, and then he turns and leads his new lifemate out into the sunlight.

B’ly sinks back into his seat, still grinning. Manderlith’s pleased thoughts echo his, tinged with smugness that he was the one who spotted Ben’s potential. B’ly mentally jostles him, watching the last of the dragonets scuffling across the sand. A blue slews sideways, suddenly finding the right boy, who yelps with shock and has to grab for a neighbour to retain his balance as impression rocks through him. The kid being grabbed shakes off the grasping hands, staring, and the final dragonet wanders on past, her green hide the same lovely clear colour as one of Weyrwoman Miranda’s favourite dresses.

“Where’s she going?” D’groot murmurs, and B’ly frowns as the dragonet makes her determined way towards the stands, wingtips dragging furrows behind her. She lifts her head and manages a spluttering bugle, staring intently upwards, and scrabbles her way up the first stair, then the second.

“She must want someone else-” B’ly begins, and then it hits him.

 _Yes_ , Manderlith confirms, almost gleeful. _She wanted no other_.

B’ly looks at Lord Ashe’s face, frozen in furious shock. At Abigail, who’s gazing down at the dragonet with wide eyes, her mouth hanging open. She starts, as though poked, and then scrambles to her feet and darts past her father and out into the aisle, skittering down the stairs with her skirts held up until she skids to halt by the dragonet’s side, where the little green warbles with relief and tries to climb into her lap.

 _I told her she had better go to her_ , Manderlith says, a little sheepish. _The little one would have hurt herself, otherwise_.

 _That was good of you_ , B’ly replies faintly, and then collects himself and adds: _Now you really can’t interfere anymore, you daft old busybody._

 _I don’t need to, everything has come right_ , Manderlith says beatifically and B’ly, watching Abigail stroking lovingly over her dragon’s head, can only suppose that he has to agree.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this fic/Pern in general, and watch _Black Sails_ at least in part for the character dynamics/shifting allegiances/politicking, I would be remiss not to rec [The Regicide](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1015222/chapters/2016013) and the [Dragonchoice trilogy](http://archiveofourown.org/series/327725) (also available - with illustrations! - at its own [website](http://www.dragonchoice.com/)).
> 
> The title for this fic comes from a song verse in _Dragonsinger_ , which refers to a ship as "a dragon of night-dark sea" and therefore seemed apropos :D
> 
> I am [on tumblr](http://andlightplay.tumblr.com), feel free to come hit me up about this fic/my BS Temeraire AU feels/my BS daemon!AU headcanons/BS generally because it is RUINING MY LIFE AND I LOVE IT.


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